de vol_, and went straight for the lines. I fell in behind him at
about one hundred metres distance. Irving was two hundred metres
higher. Before we left the field he said: "You are not to think about
Germans. That's my job. I'll warn you if I see that we are going to be
attacked. Go straight for the balloon. If you don't see me come down
and signal, you will know that there is no danger."
The French artillery were giving splendid coöperation. I saw clusters
of shell-explosions on the ground. The gunners were carrying out their
part of the programme, which was to register on enemy anti-aircraft
batteries as we passed over them. They must have made good practice.
Anti-aircraft fire was feeble, and, such of it as there was, very
wild.
We came within view of the railway line which runs from the German
lines to a large town, their most important distributing center on the
sector. Following it along with my eyes to the halfway point, I saw
the red roofs of the village which we had so often looked at from a
distance. Our balloon was in its usual place. It looked like a yellow
plum, and no larger than one; but ripe, ready to be plucked.
A burst of flame far to the left attracted my attention, and almost at
the same moment, one to the right. Ribbons of fire flapped upward in
clouds of black oily smoke. Drew signaled with his joy-stick, and I
knew what he meant: "Hooray! two down! It's our turn next!" But we
were still three or four minutes away. That was unfortunate, for a
balloon can be drawn down with amazing speed.
A rocket sailed into the air and burst in a point of greenish white
light, dazzling in its brilliancy, even in the full light of day.
Immediately after this two white objects, so small as to be hardly
visible, floated earthward: the parachutes of the observers. They had
jumped. The balloon disappeared from view behind Drew's machine. It
was being drawn down, of course, as fast as the motor could wind up
the cable. It was an exciting moment for us. We were coming on at two
hundred kilometres an hour, racing against time and very little time
at that. "Sheridan, only five miles away," could not have been more
eager for his journey's end. Our throttles were wide open, the engines
developing their highest capacity for power.
I swerved out to one side for another glimpse of the target: it was
almost on the ground, and directly under us. Drew made a steep virage
and dived. I started after him in a tight spiral, to look for the
observers; but they had both disappeared. The balloon was swaying
from side to side under the tension of the cable. It was hard to keep
it in view. I lost it under my wing. Tipping up on the other side, I
saw Drew release his rockets. They spurted out in long wavering lines
of smoke. He missed. The balloon lay close to the ground, looking
larger, riper than ever. The sight of its smooth, sleek surface was
the most tantalizing of invitations. Letting it pass under me again, I
waited for a second or two, then shut down the motor, and pushed
forward on the control-stick until I was falling vertically. Standing
upright on the rudder-bar, I felt the tugging of the shoulder-straps.
Getting the bag well within the sights, I held it there until it just
filled the circle. Then I pushed the button.
* * * * *
Although it was only eight o'clock, both Drew and I were in bed; for
we were both very tired, it was a chilly evening, and we had no fire.
An oil lamp was on the table between the two cots. Drew was sitting
propped up, his fur coat rolled into a bundle for a back-rest. He had
a sweater, tied by the sleeves, around his shoulders. His hands were
clasped around his blanketed knees, and his breath, rising in a cloud
of luminous steam,--
"Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death."
And yet, "pious" is hardly the word. J. B. was swearing, drawing from
a choice reserve of picturesque epithets which I did not know that he
possessed. I regret the necessity of omitting some of them.
"I don't see how I could have missed it! Why, I didn't turn to look
for at least thirty seconds. I was that sure that I had brought it
down. Then I banked and nearly fell out of my seat when I saw it
there. I redressed at four hundred metres. I couldn't have been more
than one hundred metres away when I fired the rockets."
"What did you do then?"
"Circled around, waiting for you. I had the balloon in sight all the
while you were diving. It was a great sight to watch from below,
particularly when you let go your rockets. I'll never forget it,
never. But, Lord! Without the climax! Artistically, it was an awful
fizzle."
There was no denying this. A balloon bonfire was the only possible
conclusion to the adventure, and we both failed at lighting it. I,
too, redressed when very close to the bag, and made a steep bank in
order to escape the burst of flame from the ignited gas. The rockets
leaped out, with a fine, blood-stirring roar. The mere sound ought to
have been enough to make any balloon collapse. But when I turned,
there it was, intact, a super-Brobdingnagian pumpkin, seen at close
view, and still ripe, still ready for plucking. If I live to one
hundred years, I shall never have a greater surprise or a more bitter
disappointment.
There was no leisure for brooding over it then. My altimeter
registered only two hundred and fifty metres, and the French lines
were far distant. If the motor failed I should have to land in German
territory. Any fate but that. Nevertheless, I felt in the pocket of my
combination, to be sure that my box of matches was safely in place. We
were cautioned always to carry them where they could be quickly got
at in case of a forced landing in enemy country. An airman must
destroy his machine in such an event. But my Spad did not mean to end
its career so ingloriously. The motor ran beautifully, hitting on
every cylinder. We climbed from two hundred and fifty metres to three
hundred and fifty, four hundred and fifty, and on steadily upward. In
the vicinity of the balloon, machine-gun fire from the ground had been
fairly heavy; but I was soon out of range, and saw the tracer bullets,
like swarms of blue bubbles, curving downward again at the end of
their trajectory.
No machines, either French or German, were in sight. Irving had
disappeared some time before we reached the balloon. I had not seen
Drew from the moment when he fired his rockets. He waited until he
made sure that I was following, then started for the west side of the
salient. I did not see him, because of my interest in those clouds of
blue bubbles which were rising with anything but bubble-like
tranquillity. When I was clear of them, I set my course westward and
parallel with the enemy lines to the south.
I had never flown so low, so far in German territory. The temptation
to forget precaution and to make a leisurely survey of the ground
beneath was hard to resist. It was not wholly resisted, in fact.
Anti-aircraft fire was again feeble and badly ranged. The shells burst
far behind and above, for I was much too low to offer an easy target.
This gave me a dangerous sense of safety, and so I tipped up on one
side, then on the other, examining the roads, searching the ruins of
villages, the trenches, the shell-marked ground. I saw no living
thing; brute or human; nothing but endless, inconceivable desolation.
The foolishness of that close scrutiny alone, without the protection
of other _avions_, I realize now much better than I did then. Unless
flying at six thousand metres or above,--when he is comparatively safe
from attack,--a pilot may never relax his vigilance for thirty seconds
together. He must look behind him, below, above, constantly. All
aviators learn this eventually, but in the case of many new pilots the
knowledge comes too late to be of service. I thought this was to be my
experience, when, looking up, I saw five combat machines bearing down
upon me. Had they been enemy planes my chances would have been very
small, for they were close at hand before I saw them. The old French
aviator, worn out by his five hundred hours of flight over the
trenches, said, "Save your nervous energy." I exhausted a three-months
reserve in as many seconds. The suspense, luckily, was hardly longer
than that. It passed when the patrol leader, followed by the others,
pulled up in _ligne de vol_, about one hundred metres above me,
showing their French _cocardes_. It was the group of protection of
Spa. 87. At the time I saw Drew, a quarter of a mile away. As he
turned, the sunlight glinted along his rocket-tubes.
A crowded hour of glorious life it seems now, although I was not of
this opinion at the time. In reality, we were absent barely forty
minutes. Climbing out of my machine at the aerodrome, I looked at my
watch. A quarter to twelve. Laignier, the sergeant mechanician, was
sitting in a sunny corner of the hangar, reading the "Matin," just as
I had left him.
Lieutenant Talbott's only comment was: "Don't let it worry you.
Better luck next time. The group bagged two out of four, and Irving
knocked down a Boche who was trying to get at you. That isn't bad for
half an hour's work."
But the decisive effect on morale which was to result from our
wholesale destruction of balloons was diminished by half. We had
forced ours down, but it bobbed up again very soon afterward. The
one-o'clock patrol saw it, higher, Miller said, than it had ever been.
It was Miller, by the way, who looked in on us at nine o'clock the
same evening. The lamp was out.
"Asleep?"
Neither of us was, but we didn't answer. He closed the door, then
reopened it.
"It's laziness, that's what it is. They ought to put you on school
régime again."
He had one more afterthought. Looking in a third time, he said,--
"How about it, you little old human dynamos; are you getting rusty?"
VII
BROUGHT DOWN
The preceding chapters of this journal have been written to little
purpose if it has not been made clear that Drew and I, like most
pilots during the first weeks of service at the front, were worth
little to the Allied cause. We were warned often enough that the road
to efficiency in military aviation is a long and dangerous one. We
were given much excellent advice by aviators who knew what they were
talking about. Much of this we solicited, in fact, and then proceeded
to disregard it item by item. Eager to get results, we plunged into
our work with the valor of ignorance, the result being that Drew was
shot down in one of his first encounters, escaping with his life by
one of those more than miracles for which there is no explanation.
That I did not fare as badly or worse is due solely to the indulgence
of that godfather of ours, already mentioned, who watched over my
first flights while in a mood beneficently pro-Ally.
Drew's adventure followed soon after our first patrol, when he had the
near combat with the two-seater. Luckily, on that occasion, both the
German pilot and his machine-gunner were taken completely off their
guard. Not only did he attack with the sun squarely in his face, but
he went down in a long, gradual dive, in full view of the gunner, who
could not have asked for a better target. But the man was asleep, and
this gave J. B. a dangerous contempt for all gunners of enemy
nationality.
Lieutenant Talbott cautioned him. "You have been lucky, but don't get
it into your head that this sort of thing happens often. Now, I'm
going to give you a standing order. You are not to attack again,
neither of you are to think of attacking, during your first month
here. As likely as not it would be your luck the next time to meet an
old pilot. If you did, I wouldn't give much for your chances. He would
outmaneuver you in a minute. You will go out on patrol with the
others, of course; it's the only way to learn to fight. But if you get
lost, go back to our balloons and stay there until it is time to go
home."
Neither of us obeyed this order, and, as it happened, Drew was the one
to suffer. A group of American officers visited the squadron one
afternoon. In courtesy to our guests, it was decided to send out all
the pilots for an additional patrol, to show them how the thing was
done. Twelve machines were in readiness for the sortie, which was set
for seven o'clock, the last one of the day. We were to meet at three
thousand metres, and then to divide forces, one patrol to cover the
east half of the sector and one the west.
We got away beautifully, with the exception of Drew, who had
motor-trouble and was five minutes late in starting. With his
permission I insert here his own account of the adventure--a letter
written while he was in hospital.
No doubt you are wondering what happened, listening,
meanwhile, to many I-told-you-so explanations from the
others. This will be hard on you, but bear up, son. It might
not be a bad plan to listen, with the understanding as well
as with the ear, to some expert advice on how to bag the
Hun. To quote the prophetic Miller, "I'm telling you this
for your own good."
I gave my name and the number of the escadrille to the
medical officer at the _poste de secours_. He said he would
'phone the captain at once, so that you must know before
this, that I have been amazingly lucky. I fell the greater
part of two miles--count 'em, two!--before I actually
regained control, only to lose it again. I fainted while
still several hundred feet from the ground; but more of this
later. Couldn't sleep last night. Had a fever and my brain
went on a spree, taking advantage of my helplessness. I just
lay in bed and watched it function. Besides, there was a
great artillery racket all night long. It appeared to be
coming from our sector, so you must have heard it as well.
This hospital is not very far back and we get the full
orchestral effect of heavy firing. The result is that I am
dead tired to-day. I believe I can sleep for a week.
They have given me a bed in the officers' ward--me, a
corporal. It is because I am an American, of course. Wish
there was some way of showing one's appreciation for so much
kindness. My neighbor on the left is a _chasseur_ captain. A
hand-grenade exploded in his face. He will go through life
horribly disfigured. An old padre, with two machine-gun
bullets in his hip, is on the other side. He is very
patient, but sometimes the pain is a little too much for
him. To a Frenchman, "Oh, là, là!" is an expression for
every conceivable kind of emotion. In the future it will
mean unbearable physical pain to me. Our orderlies are two
_poilus_, long past military age. They are as gentle and
thoughtful as the nurses themselves. One of them brought me
lemonade all night long. Worth while getting wounded just to
have something taste so good.
* * * * *
I meant to finish this letter a week ago, but haven't felt
up to it. Quite perky this morning, so I'll go on with the
tale of my "heroic combat." Only, first, tell me how that
absurd account of it got into the "Herald"? I hope Talbott
knows that I was not foolish enough to attack six Germans
single-handed. If he doesn't, please enlighten him. His
opinion of my common sense must be low enough, as it is.
We were to meet over S---- at three thousand metres, you
remember, and to cover the sector at five thousand until
dusk. I was late in getting away, and by the time I reached
the rendezvous you had all gone. There wasn't a chasse
machine in sight. I ought to have gone back to the balloons
as Talbott advised, but thought it would be easy to pick you
up later, so went on alone after I had got some height.
Crossed the lines at thirty-five hundred metres, and finally
got up to four thousand, which was the best I could do with
my rebuilt engine. The Huns started shelling, but there were
only a few of them that barked. I went down the lines for a
quarter of an hour, meeting two Sopwiths and a Letord, but
no Spads. You were almost certain to be higher than I, but
my old packet was doing its best at four thousand, and
getting overheated with the exertion. Had to throttle down
and _pique_ several times to cool off.
Then I saw you--at least I thought it was you--about four
kilometres inside the German lines. I counted six machines,
well grouped, one a good deal higher than the others and one
several hundred metres below them. The pilot on top was
doing beautiful _renversements_ and an occasional
barrel-turn, in Barry's manner. I was so certain it was our
patrol that I started over at once, to join you. It was
getting dusk and I lost sight of the machine lowest down for
a few seconds. Without my knowing it, he was approaching at
exactly my altitude. You know how difficult it is to see a
machine in that position. Suddenly he loomed up in front of
me like an express train, as you have seen them approach
from the depths of a moving-picture screen, only ten times
faster; and he was firing as he came. I realized my awful
mistake, of course. His tracer bullets were going by on the
left side, but he corrected his aim, and my motor seemed to
be eating them up. I banked to the right, and was about to
cut my motor and dive, when I felt a smashing blow in the
left shoulder. A sickening sensation and a very peculiar
one, not at all what I thought it might feel like to be hit
with a bullet. I believed that it came from the German in
front of me. But it couldn't have, for he was still
approaching when I was hit, and I have learned here that the
bullet entered from behind.
This is the history of less than a minute I'm giving you. It
seemed much longer than that, but I don't suppose it was. I
tried to shut down the motor, but couldn't manage it because
my left arm was gone. I really believed that it had been
blown off into space until I glanced down and saw that it
was still there. But for any service it was to me, I might
just as well have lost it. There was a vacant period of ten
or fifteen seconds which I can't fill in. After that I knew
that I was falling, with my motor going full speed. It was a
helpless realization. My brain refused to act. I could do
nothing. Finally, I did have one clear thought, "Am I on
fire?" This cut right through the fog, brought me up broad
awake. I was falling almost vertically, in a sort of half
_vrille_. No machine but a Spad could have stood the strain.
The Huns were following me and were not far away, judging by
the sound of their guns. I fully expected to feel another
bullet or two boring its way through. One did cut the skin
of my right leg, although I didn't know this until I reached
the hospital. Perhaps it was well that I did fall out of
control, for the firing soon stopped, the Germans thinking,
and with reason, that they had bagged me. Some proud Boche
airman is wearing an iron cross on my account. Perhaps the
whole crew of dare-devils has been decorated. However, no
unseemly sarcasm. We would pounce on a lonely Hun just as
quickly. There is no chivalry in war in these modern days.
I pulled out of the spin, got the broom-stick between my
knees, reached over, and shut down the motor with my right
hand. The propeller stopped dead. I didn't much care, being
very drowsy and tired. The worst of it was that I couldn't
get my breath. I was gasping as though I had been hit in the
pit of the stomach. Then I lost control again and started
falling. It was awful! I was almost ready to give up. I
believe that I said, out loud, "I'm going to be killed. This
is my last sortie." At any rate, I thought it. Made one last
effort and came out in _ligne de vol_, as nearly as I could
judge, about one hundred and fifty metres from the ground.
It was an ugly-looking place for landing, trenches and
shell-holes everywhere. I was wondering in a vague way
whether they were French or German, when I fell into the
most restful sleep I've ever had in my life.
I have no recollection of the crash, not the slightest. I
might have fallen as gently as a leaf. That is one thing to
be thankful for among a good many others. When I came to, it
was at once, completely. I knew that I was on a stretcher
and remembered immediately exactly what had happened. My
heart was going pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, and I could hardly
breathe, but I had no sensation of pain except in my chest.
This made me think that I had broken every bone in my body.
I tried moving first one leg, then the other, then my arms,
my head, my body. No trouble at all, except with my left arm
and side.
I accepted the miracle without attempting to explain it, for
I had something more important to wonder about: who had the
handles of my stretcher? The first thing I did was to open
my eyes, but I was bleeding from a scratch on the forehead
and saw only a red blur. I wiped them dry with my sleeve and
looked again. The broad back in front of me was covered with
mud. Impossible to distinguish the color of the tunic. But
the shrapnel helmet above it was--French! I was in French
hands. If ever I live long enough in one place, so that I
may gather a few possessions and make a home for myself, on
one wall of my living-room I will have a bust-length
portrait, rear view, of a French _brancardier_, mud-covered
back and battered tin hat.
Do you remember our walk with Ménault in the rain, and the
_déjeuner_ at the restaurant where they made such wonderful
omelettes? I am sure that you will recall the occasion,
although you may have forgotten the conversation. I have not
forgotten one remark of Ménault's apropos of talk about
risks. If a man were willing, he said, to stake everything
for it, he would accumulate an experience of fifteen or
twenty minutes which would compensate him, a thousand times
over, for all the hazard. "And if you live to be old," he
said quaintly, "you can never be bored with life. You will
have something, always, very pleasant to think about." I
mention this in connection with my discovery that I was not
in German hands. I have had five minutes of perfect
happiness without any background--no thought of yesterday or
to-morrow--to spoil it.
I said, "Bonjour, messieurs," in a gurgling voice. The man
in front turned his head sidewise and said,--
"Tiens! Ça va, monsieur l'aviateur?"
The other one said, "Ah, mon vieux!" You know the inflection
they give this expression, particularly when it means, "This
is something wonderful!" He added that they had seen the
combat and my fall, and little expected to find the pilot
living, to say nothing of speaking. I hoped that they would
go on talking, but I was being carried along a trench; they
had to lift me shoulder-high at every turn, and needed all
their energy. The Germans were shelling the lines. Several
fell fairly close, and they brought me down a long flight of
wooden steps into a dugout to wait until the worst of it
should be over. While waiting, they told me that I had
fallen just within the first-line trenches, at a spot where
a slight rise in ground hid me from sight of the enemy.
Otherwise, they might have had a bad time rescuing me. My
Spad was completely wrecked. It fell squarely into a trench,
the wings breaking the force of the fall. Before reaching
the ground, I turned, they said, and was making straight for
Germany. Fifty metres higher, and I would have come down in
No Man's Land.
For a long time we listened in silence to the subdued
_crr-ump_, _crr-ump_, of the shells. Sometimes showers of
earth pattered down the stairway, and we would hear the
high-pitched, droning _V-z-z-z_ of pieces of shell-casing as
they whizzed over the opening. One of them would say, "Not
far, that one"; or, "He's looking for some one, that
fellow," in a voice without a hint of emotion. Then, long
silences and other deep, earth-shaking rumbles.
They asked me, several times, if I was suffering, and
offered to go on to the _poste de secours_ if I wanted them
to. It was not heavy bombardment, but it would be safer to
wait for a little while. I told them that I was ready to go
on at any time, but not to hurry on my account; I was quite
comfortable.